The start of the weekend garlic festival in the little market town . Wilf joins me, bright and early, on the croissant run . Although it's barely seven the square outside the cafe is already bustling . In the market hall a huge vat of garlic is boiling away in readiness for lunch , the stalls are doing a brisk trade selling garlic strands to Dutch tourists and a pipe band is somewhat incongruously practising for the noontime ' Garlic Queen ' parade . The highlight of the day, this year as every year , will be an attempt to break the world record for garlic peeling .The record stands at 26.5 kilos in 30 minutes .
On the way back we're followed down the drive by a white van with a large cartoon chipmunk brandishing a power saw painted on its side . It's the tree surgeon that I phoned after the April storms. He looks at the oak branch dangling menacingly above the barn and says out loud ' that's not good. You want to get that fixed '. I bite my tongue while thinking of a wide variety of responses that a less diplomatic individual might come out with . He clambers up the tree with all the agility of a monkey , examines the offending branch , and then shimmies effortlessly down again . ' I wouldn't park the cars there if another storm comes along ' . With that he's off down the drive promising to come back in November to remove the offending branch . Progress, of sorts .
Another white van arrives shortly thereafter . It's Audes friend from the womens cooperative with her cement mixer , crew cut and dungarees . She glowers , stubs out her cigarette and gruffly informs me that she's come to regrout the terrace walls. . Today , she's wearing a tee shirt that says ' You've just got lucky ' printed in large capital letters across the front . For the second time that morning I employ my diplomatic skills and remain silent .
Wilf sensibly ignores all this activity and settles down for his post-breakfast , pre-lunch, doze. Ever the optimist , experience tells him that it's better to ' count the garden by the flowers , never by the leaves that fall ' .
Has anyone ever had to give their dog nose drops ? Wilf has developed polyps in his nose . The cancer is on the prowl again .These have closed down his right nostril. The most important thing - he's not in any pain and the vet is hopeful that a course of eye and nose drops six times a day will alleviate the symptoms . Applying eye drops is easy but has anyone got any tips on how to apply nose drops ? Not as simple as it sounds ! There's nothing on Google or in Dr.Fogle . The vets is now closed for the day .
Someone on the dogosphere will know .
On the way back from our morning croissant run I stop the car and walk , Wilf by my side , through the sunflower fields . Millions and millions of yellow faces rolling in seemingly endless waves all the way to the Spanish border . This early in the morning they're still droopily asleep , heads held low , waiting for the sun to rise . Thousands , possibly tens of thousands of starlings and redshanks swarming noisily through the serried rows in search of seeds . Rush hour in Tarn -et - Garonne .
Nine thirty at night and Wilf is snoring noisily away on the warm tarmac outside the front gate . Kelly the hover dog lies beside him , delighted to have canine company , her tail happily pounding away . Wilf , tired out after a day with his family , is completely oblivious to her presence . As the sun sets the old widow comes to fetch Kelly home . We chat a while , then as she is about to go she turns and says : ' One may go a long way after one is tired ' . A sweet old French proverb . Was it meant for herself or for him ?
Madame Bay is here bright and early . M 'Ongoose receives an alarmingly passionate birthday kiss from the saintly septaguenarian . No such thing as a demur , anglo-saxon style , peck on the cheek where Madame Bay is concerned .Today she is sporting a purple and orange head scarf , what appear to be shiny blue track suit bottoms , glittery gold open toed sandals and a long orange and green linen striped jacket secured at the front by red buttons the size of milk bottle tops . She brings with her a large brown cardboard box full of gaudily packaged French cleaning products . These all appear to have jaunty , near identical , names like Jif, Mif, Splif or Bif .
Madame Bay is soon cheerily at work in the family bedrooms with this toxic mix of gallic chemicals . She's whistling while working so all must be well with her flock of daughters and grand daughters . Wilf , who hasn't yet understood why Madame Bay is getting this particular run of rooms ready , embarks on a slow walk to the fire hydrant before retreating to the relative peace and calm of my office for a leisurely three hour nap . His life now measured by a fixed routine of food, pit stops and sleep . Amazing how the old fellow maintains an attitude that says " the difficulties of life are intended to make us better , not bitter ".
The start of the weekend garlic festival in the little market town . Wilf joins me, bright and early, on the croissant run . Although it's barely seven the square outside the cafe is already bustling . In the market hall a huge vat of garlic is boiling away in readiness for lunch , the stalls are doing a brisk trade selling garlic strands to Dutch tourists and a pipe band is somewhat incongruously practising for the noontime ' Garlic Queen ' parade . The highlight of the day, this year as every year , will be an attempt to break the world record for garlic peeling .The record stands at 26.5 kilos in 30 minutes .
